


Acquiescence

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Character Study, M/M, Melkor is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: “Melkor was a black hole, vast beyond comprehension, destructive, celestial; and he was the lonely planet locked in orbit around him, kneeling to him not out of fear or impassive duty, but out of stupid, boundless love.”An exploration of why Mairon might allow Melkor to play his cruel games.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Acquiescence

“No, my lord, stop...” Mairon murmured, moving out of reach of Melkor’s groping hands.

Melkor huffed in frustration, grasping him by the upper arm and pulling him close, heedless of anyone who might venture into Angband’s upper corridors and stumble upon them.

“No,” Mairon said, a little more loudly, more urgently. “I don’t want this, not now, _please_ —”

“Quiet now,” Melkor growled, tightening his grip around Mairon’s arm until he winced in pain.

“You’re hurting me—”

“I haven’t begun hurting you, Mairon, now hold your tongue—”

“I won’t,” he nearly screamed, violently tearing himself away from Melkor. “This isn’t right, it’s my body, you can’t just—”

“I can’t?” Melkor hissed, low and menacing, drawing suffocatingly close to Mairon and backing him up against the wall. “I can’t? I own you, Mairon. _You are mine_. Don’t make this harder for yourself.”

He shook his head, failing to fend off Melkor’s hands worming their way beneath his shirt. He could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he didn’t want them to fall, he didn’t he didn’t he didn’t, they were weak and they were stupid and—

A sob hitched in his throat as Melkor bodily flipped him round, crushing him face-first into the wall. The anger drained from him like leaden ballast, replaced by icy waves of numbness. His breeches were tugged partway down his thighs, and he just let it happen. He couldn’t bring himself to resist, not anymore, not when it was futile, no matter what he did it was always so fucking futile, Melkor wouldn’t listen, Melkor didn’t care.

He bit his lip so hard he could taste blood on his tongue when Melkor pushed in without preparing him at all. The stretch burned, a sharp pain seemed to shoot through his insides, and still he bit his lip, still he kept quiet. Maybe it would be easier like this: maybe he would be able to block all of this out if he just kept silent, if he just ignored the pain.

But oh, who was he kidding? His body was opening up, stretching to accommodate Melkor’s girth, and soon enough the only pain left was behind his ribcage, twisting like thorns around his heart. Melkor was fucking him in earnest now, ramming into him over and over and over. Hot, shameful tears spilled over his cheeks as he let himself be slammed into the wall with Melkor’s every thrust, as Melkor’s length inside of him sparked not pain, not disgust, but snatches of familiar pleasure between his hips.

He would have simply let it happen: he would have let Melkor use him and hurt him and fuck him and then he would have limped away to cauterise the open wound that was his heart and pretend Melkor hadn’t really meant it. But Melkor was pressing kisses to the back of his neck, reaching around to take his slowly hardening cock in hand, and he just couldn’t face it, he couldn’t let his master wring an orgasm out of his body while he was _forcing_ him—

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, hoping against hope, trying to push Melkor’s hand away. “I don’t want this, I don’t—”

“Shh, Mairon.”

He came undone at the gentleness in Melkor’s voice, unspooling into nothing more than flesh and an aching, beating heart. He pressed his cheek against the wall and closed his eyes, his protests crumbling into infinitesimal pieces on his tongue.

It was the gentleness that always undid him. He could deal with Melkor’s cruelty, his brute passions, his unbridled anger. He understood his master’s nature and he could not fault him for it, not really.

But this—

_A soft kiss pressed to his forehead_

_A gentle hand wiping away his tears_

_Melkor, holding him so tenderly, so protectively afterwards, as though he were something precious, something that might break_

_I love you, whispered like Melkor really meant it_

_What do you want out of this?_ Thuringwethil once asked him, and he lied to her, _I want to make him proud_ , he lied to her but he could not lie to himself.

He wanted to make Melkor proud, he did; but it ran deeper than that, plunging like a fault line into the very core of his being. Melkor was a black hole, vast beyond comprehension, destructive, celestial; and he was the lonely planet locked in orbit around him, kneeling to him not out of fear or impassive duty, but out of stupid, boundless love.

He wanted Melkor to understand this: to graciously accept his heart and offer his love in return.

 _Love_ , he thought bitterly as Melkor started pumping his hand up and down his cock a little bit faster, sending his breath hissing over his teeth as he felt himself spiralling closer to the edge.

When had he started pining like a common mortal?

Worse still, when had he become so damn _foolish_?

Love was not in Melkor’s nature. It had never been, and it would never be. Melkor forged his own way in love as in everything else; it was a twisted, violent thing, thriving on blood and screams in the darkness.

In the darkest corners of his heart, he knew that the lovely, golden dreams he’d spun for himself were no more than a hollow shell.

He also knew that, in a way, they weren’t what he really wanted.

The violence, the pain, the bruises—none of them frightened him, not truly. He’d been in his master’s service long enough to know that he wouldn’t injure him too grievously. It was his own reactions that gave him pause: the stiffening of flesh, the eager spread of his thighs so far beyond his voluntary control.

He liked to be hurt.

The thought of surrendering himself like that chilled him to the bone: complete loss of control, his soul and body stripped bare, made raw and vulnerable for Melkor to adore or crush into bloody pulp, whatever took his fancy at the time.

It was terrifying and it was exhilarating, and it bound him to his lies and to his acquiescence in equal measure.

He came over Melkor’s fingers, biting back a moan of all too real pleasure.

He felt Melkor reach his peak shortly afterwards, burying himself to the hilt inside of him, filling him in all the sick, exquisite ways that he craved.

He did not immediately move when Melkor withdrew from him. He stood facing the wall, fumbling with his breeches to pull them back up. The last vestiges of his orgasm were slipping away, and in the wake of that pleasure he was left feeling small and cold and so awfully alone. He realised that he was shaking.

He gave an involuntary start when Melkor reached out to him. But Melkor’s hand on his shoulder was gentle, and he seemed willing to leave behind whatever had so kindled his temper. He simply turned Mairon around, pulling him into his arms, and Mairon went without resistance.

It should have felt wrong, it should have felt _obscene_ , to welcome the embrace of the person who had been abusing him only moments before. But out of the million things he could or should have been feeling, he felt only a vague sense of comfort.

“You’re all right,’’ Melkor murmured to him, rubbing slow, soothing circles over his back, and he laughed a little forlorn laugh: he was all right, wasn’t he? Melkor hadn’t hurt him much at all. He was sore, yes, but that would soon fade and all would be forgotten, at least by one of them.

He was all right, except for the dull ache in his chest as though his heart had bruised itself in its turmoil; but he didn’t think Melkor would be very interested in hearing about that.

Instead he pressed himself impossibly close to Melkor as though he wanted to burrow inside of him, as though that would help him make sense of it all.

Melkor cupped a hand to his cheek, drawing his head upwards, pressing his lips to Mairon’s own in a tender kiss that he instinctively returned, despite himself.

“You’re always so loyal,” Melkor breathed into their kiss, and maybe it meant nothing or maybe it meant everything he had always hoped for.

All he knew was that right now it was enough for him.


End file.
